Betrayed. Christopher Dinsdale
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A farm south of Roslin, Scotland, August, 1393
Tegan MacDonald and her son, Connor, hid in the choking cover of dusty hay. She clutched her shivering son, her life, in her bare arms and silently prayed that they could somehow survive this moment. She had only been able to rescue a small pouch of money along with the clothes on their backs before the English began the attack on their farm.
Disappointed to find the building empty of treasure, the angered troops lightened their spirits by putting the torch to the old thatched roof that cosseted the humble daub and spackle home. The straw, dry from the summer sun, quickly ignited. The homestead for generations of MacDonalds was now engulfed in a raging inferno. The young boy watched in disbelief through the open stable doors as his mother choked back tears.
“They’ll be coming for the stable next,” she managed to whisper. “We have to leave before they find us.”
While the soldiers were fighting over who would keep the meagre possessions looted from the farmhouse, Tegan rolled onto her back, pulled back her knee, and unleashed a kick that sent flying a loose plank from the back of the stable. Pushing Connor before her, she squeezed through, rolling onto the icy mud of the field. They leapt to their feet and flew like the wind through the fields. The ripening harvest was to have fed them through the harsh Scottish winter, but it was the least of their worries as they desperately sprinted to the safety of the approaching dark forest.
Crashing through the brambles that guarded the woods, Tegan and Connor didn’t slow down until they reached shadowy safety beyond the licking light of the farmhouse flames. She pulled her child to a stop, their chests heaving for air.
“We will walk to cousin Maggie’s home,” she announced between gasps.
“But that will take until morning’,” complained Connor, frightened and exhausted.
“I’m sorry, Connor, but I need you to be strong right now. I know we can make it before sunrise. Once we arrive, you can use the cot in the loft and catch up on your sleep. Now come on. We have to get to the road.”
By the time they stumbled through the thick woods to the mud path that led to the village of Roslin, their clothing was badly torn and their skin burned with deep scrapes. They held each other close in an attempt to share the heat of their bodies as they walked wearily down a gentle hill, following the black tunnel through the trees that was just a slightly lighter shade of grey than that of the surrounding trees.
A gurgling up ahead told them of the approaching stream which eventually wound its way into the village and under a wooden bridge. As they stepped onto the bridge, a voice, low and gruff, froze them in their tracks.
“To cross this bridge, you must first pay the toll.”
A tall, thin stranger, the smell of grog strong in his breath, stepped out from the bushes to their right. Connor winced as Tegan squeezed his arm. Somehow, she managed a strong, controlled voice despite the danger that now confronted them. “This bridge was built by the Sinclairs for everyone to use. You have no right to charge a toll,” she answered.
“I’m afraid I can,” he snickered. “You see, I have been given the royal appointment of official tollkeeper by Prince Henry himself. It would be a dereliction of duty to let you pass free of charge.”
As the stranger staggered forward, Tegan and Connor retreated warily.
“We have no money,” she lied. “Please, let us cross. The English have just sacked our home. We have nothing left!”
“Nothing?” he laughed, stumbling forward. “I’m sure you have something to give me.”
Tegan gently edged Connor away from the stranger. Instinctively, the young boy understood. They were about to make a run around the highwayman. Just as Tegan and Connor started to bolt forward, a second apparition appeared from behind, grabbing Tegan around the waist and neck. The sudden jolt from his mother’s arm sent Connor tumbling to his knees. He turned and saw his mother writhing to get free herself from the second highwayman, chuckling at her as if she were a snared rabbit.
“Let go of my mother!”
Although only ten, Connor had strong body from his years of work on the farm. In a flash, he launched himself at the attacker. Leaping up into the air, he swung an arm around the highwayman’s neck and squeezed until only a weak rasp escaped from the stranger’s lips. The grip on his mother weakened. With a twist, she broke free just as Connor’s head exploded in pain. The world spun as he collapsed onto the ground, stumbling and falling into the ditch beside the bridge. Through a sea of spinning stars, he heard his mother scream.
Guffawing at the boy’s stupor, the two robbers returned their focus to Tegan, who was firmly back in the grasp of the second attacker.
“Perhaps that will teach your boy some manners!”
“Look here, Niall! The lady was telling us a tale! She has at least a few shillings hiding in a pouch.”
He viciously snapped the purse off from around her neck and held it in front of Tegan’s face.
“Aye, you’re right, Dougal. And that’s too bad for you, my dear. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to lie? Now we’ll have to double your toll.”
She screamed again as the strangers pressed in on her. Connor clawed and crawled up the embankment. Somehow finding his feet, he staggered back towards his mother, ready to defend her to the death. Just then a sound from the other side of the creek caused everyone to freeze.
“The bloody English,” cursed one of the highwaymen.
The echo of horses’ hooves quickly approached the gathering. Three horsemen appeared through the gloom, their steeds snorting as they burst across the bridge and pulled to a halt in front of the frozen fray. The highwaymen gaped as the lead rider dismounted. The other riders followed suit.
Connor, wild-eyed and confused, changed his target from the highwaymen and instead charged toward the lead rider.
“I’ll kill you bloodsucking English with my bare hands! This is all your fault!” he screamed, tortured by his unwinnable situation.
“Stand down, son,” said a voice in calm Gaelic. “We’re not English.”
Hearing Gaelic from the soldier completely bewildered Connor, who slid to a halt and stared dumfounded into the face of a shadow.
“Who are you then?”
“A friend,” the apparition answered.
The sound of swords being drawn sliced through the mist. Suddenly frightened, the highwaymen released Tegan, who immediately ran to Connor’s side, wrapping her trembling, icy arms around his body.
“What has just transpired here?” asked the horseman sternly.
“We were just helping this young lady and her son across the bridge,” answered the thief. “’Tis so dark, we feared that they might end up in the creek.”
“That’s not true!” blurted Connor. “They demanded money, then they attacked us!”
“Thieves?” questioned the leader. “On my land?”
He stepped closer and peered into the eyes of one thief then the other. The point of a glistening blade suddenly came to rest under the highwayman’s stubbly chin.
“I know you. You’re Dougal McPhee. And you, you’re Niall Kincade. What kind of disloyal filth attacks a helpless Scottish family while the English are ransacking our lands?”
“’Tis . . . ’tis not as it looks . . .” stammered the thief. “I swear.”
“I do not tolerate traitors on my land,” the horseman growled. “I should kill you both on the spot. You have until sunrise to get yourselves off my land, or else I’ll run you through and display your worthless swinging corpses at the crossroads. Don’t ever set foot